


Whumptober 2020 13 Accidents

by frankie_mcstein



Series: Whumptober 2020 [13]
Category: Magnum P.I. (TV 2018)
Genre: Gen, Higgins in Russia, Hypothermia, Pre-Series, Whumptober 2020, author is not a spy, author is not military, boys in combat, gun shot wounds, how is this two chapters, injured Nuzo, interrogation references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:26:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26988205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_mcstein/pseuds/frankie_mcstein
Summary: Whumptober 2020 prompt 13- AccidentsChapter 1- It was meant to be a routine patrol. The Jeep breaking down was the worst thing that could have happened. Until the shooting started...Chapter 2- She had an exit strategy. But she hadn't taken an interrogation into account...
Series: Whumptober 2020 [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947172
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	1. In Which Our Boys Nearly Lose Their Cool

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, this got away from me. Chapter 1 is the boys, not just pre-series but pre- POW camp and a patrol that goes wrong. Chapter 1 is Higgy in Russia after her cover is blown because I will never not believe that she has been tortured before we see it in the show.

_ (A.N.- I do not know military parlance. Like, at all. I spoke to a family member who is currently doing something clever within the American military and googled a lot. And then I frankensteined a bunch of stuff I’ve heard/read over the years. I’m afraid a lot of it will be UK terminology rather than US, given that I am a Brit living in Britain. I am also rather fuzzy on military SOP, by which I mean I know nothing about it at all, and wasn’t sure how to go about googling it without getting myself placed on a watch list, so that too has come down to stuff I’ve seen in action films, mostly from the 80s. Finally, I have the boys in a Humvee and use both ‘truck’ and ‘Jeep’ as interchangeable names for this. I know about as much about military vehicles, or any vehicles really, as I do about anything else military, so all this might be utterly incorrect. I can only offer my sincere apologies and hope that, if anyone cares to correct me, they do so reasonably politely.) _

  
  


Driving across the desert was never a fun time. The list of reasons why it sucked was a long one. Bouncing around in an Army truck with what passed for suspension having given up at the first bump was a big one, especially when they were fighting down winces as the bruises left over from their last mission objected to every dip in the half-obscured road they were following. They were wrapped in uniforms that were too hot, juggling tac gear that stuck up at awkward angles and canteens that started out too heavy and became a source of anxiety when they were too light.

“So, fellas,” Rick called out, ignoring every entry on the ‘Reasons We All Have For Complaining Right Now’ list and grinning. “Are we having fun yet?” Behind him, he could hear the huff that usually accompanied Magnum’s signature ‘silent chuckle with an eye roll’ and, out of the corner of his eye, could see Nuzo shaking his head with a grin. He guessed, if he turned around, he’d see T.C. rolling his eyes and turning to the window to hide his smile.

“C’mon! Isn’t this what the recruiters promised us? We’re seeing new places…”   
  
“Looks like the same old road to me,” came a mutter from the back seat, prompting more snickering.

“We’re living adventurous lives!” Rick continued, choosing to ignore the way the Jeep swerved a little as Nuzo laughed outright. “Putting our best feet forward and…” Even Rick couldn’t ignore the sudden lurch as the Jeep stalled.

All four men were pitched forward and instantly straightened up; it could be a mechanical failure, it could be some sort of trap. Three pairs of eyes focused on the land around the road, scanning what they could see through the armoured glass of the windows while Nuzo tried to restart the engine. There was a dull sort of buzz that had all four of them tensing for the split second it took them to realize it was coming from their vehicle and not outside.

“Anything?” Magnum didn’t sound tense, but anyone who knew him, certainly anyone who had served under him, knew the difference between a Magnum who was genuinely relaxed and a Magnum who was battle-ready. Two voices calling out the all-clear did nothing to ease the tension that had ratcheted up at the absolute failure of the engine to do so much as cough. Magnum double-checked that his own section of the horizon was totally clear before calling out orders.

“Rick, I want you on the fifty. T.C., see what you can do with the engine. Nuzo, you take west and north; I’ll take east and south so we can maintain a full watch. We don't have enough batteries to run the NVGs or our thermals at full capacity, so let's get home before that becomes a problem.”

Three heads dipped in nods of acknowledgment; there was a shuffle of movement as each man adjusted his grip on his weapon and shifted the sling to a more comfortable position. Then the four doors were flung open and the four men dropped to the ground, heads swiveling as they scanned the area again. Each of them was all too aware of the fact that they were more vulnerable now, before they had taken up their positions, than they would be in thirty seconds. The area remained clear, all four scanning quickly across their quadrant, then checking it again before calling out that it was all clear.

The four doors slammed shut, and Rick climbed up to the fifty-caliber mounted on the roof of the Humvee while T.C. moved to the passenger side door to retrieve the basic toolkit stashed in one of the various nooks and crannies alongside the other usual gear. Magnum and Nuzo moved to stand at opposite corners, taking down the netting that was wound around the Humvee as they moved. The camouflage wouldn’t do much in the day even with the clouds blotting out the sun and the rain starting to fall, but it would help break up the outline of the vehicle at night, if they were unlucky enough to be stuck out that long. 

As soon as he was settled against the side of the stalled vehicle, Magnum grabbed his radio. “Baseplate Actual, this is Mortem Three Actual. Do you copy?”

_ “Copy Mortem Three Actual; this is Baseplate. Reading you loud and clear. Send your traffic.” _

“Baseplate, we’ve been stalled by an unknown factor and might need alternative transport. How do you copy?”

_ “Strong copy, Mortem Three Actual. Require coordinates.” _ __   
__   
“Wilco, standby.” Magnum pulled the small, laminated map out of his pocket and reluctantly looked away from the area he was watching to find the rough coordinates for their location. “Ready to copy?”

_ “Roger, Mortem Three Actual; ready to copy.” _

T.C. didn’t bother following the conversation between Magnum and the base after that. He knew the drill; Magnum would be given an ETA for their new wheels and told to keep base informed of any changes to their situation. He would repeat the orders and time frame and sign off. Instead, T.C. focused on the engine in front of him. He’d be the first to admit he was much better with helicopters than wheeled vehicles, and even then, he was a pilot, not a mechanic. He’d been hoping to see something obviously wrong, something he could just reach in and set right. But everything looked fine to him.

He sighed, acutely aware of the passage of time and how cold it was going to get once the sun went down, and reached under the hood to start fiddling with the bits of the engine he recognized and thought he could work with. The rain started falling in earnest as they maintained their positions around the stalled Jeep, three of them scanning and rescanning their surroundings. Cold water was trickling down their necks, making them long to rub it away or adjust their collars, but, apart from T.C. as he twisted something under the hood, no one’s hands moved so much as an inch.

Rick’s call of, “Movement on my four!” had T.C ducking instinctively, trying to conceal himself while still working on the engine, trusting his brothers to cover him if he needed to move.

“I glassed it,” Magnum called back, making T.C. relax again. “Looks like a bag caught in some scrub.”

“Could be someone using the bush as cover,” Nuzo called, not taking his eyes away from his own section of the desert. Among other groups, it could have been considered insubordinate of him to question the superior officer’s call, but they all knew Magnum welcomed their input and trusted them to know the difference between helping and hindering.

“I know,” came the response, Magnum still focused on scanning the areas he was facing and not turning his head away. “Keep your weapons on red-con one. I don’t like being out in the open like this.”

“Between the wind and the rain, I’m getting too much movement to track.” Nuzo’s voice held a note of warning. ‘Could be hostiles out there,’ his tone said.

“Our ride should be here in less than ten minutes,” Magnum assured them all. “Try and-” Gunfire erupted from the north, cutting off the words.

“Down! Get down!” Nuzo yelled, returning fire even as he threw open the door of the Humvee to use as cover. Magnum waited for T.C. to dive for the side of the truck before yanking his own door open, and they took aim at what they thought were signs of movement, squinting through the driving rain. 

Above the three of them, the fifty was growling as Rick opened fire, raking the area to the north with bullets. He couldn’t spot any movement, but the flares from the muzzles were excellent targets, and he zeroed in on the location of their attackers with deadly accuracy. The cry from the side of the Jeep was drowned out by the heavy snarling of the large caliber gun. Magnum noticed Nuzo had stopped returning fire, gave him three seconds to reload, then, at the continued silence, started moving around the back end of the truck, sure that T.C. and Rick would keep the hostiles busy.

He saw the outflung hand first, grabbed it, and tugged Nuzo to the rear of the Humvee, trying to ignore the pain on the other man’s face at the rough treatment and the blood that was spreading rapidly. He replaced Nuzo’s hand with his own, pressing down hard against the entry wound in his friend’s side. T.C. called out that he could see a vehicle approaching, and Magnum saw Nuzo had heard too, the older man scratching at the wet sand beneath him, trying to wrap his fingers around the grip of his rifle.

“It’s ours!” came Rick’s voice, and, as he yelled, more gunfire sounded off in the distance. Whoever was driving out to meet them had clearly seen the ongoing firefight and jumped into the fray.

Magnum returned his focus to Nuzo’s side, noting the way blood was leaking between his fingers and pressing down harder in response.

Nuzo couldn’t hold back the groan of pain.

“Sorry, buddy, but you know I gotta.” Magnum watched as Nuzo sucked in a shallow breath before nodding.

“Sure, Tommy, I know.” His voice was quiet, the smile he tried to give weak and shaky, and, as shouts sounded above them, Rick and T.C. hailing their rescuers, Nuzo blacked out under Magnum’s hands.

…

Nuzo had been rushed to the medical building where he was instantly hooked up to an array of machinery. The other three had been given ten minute’s grace to clean themselves up before a brief after action report was demanded of them. When they were finally free to check on Nuzo, it was to find two corpsmen grabbing a smoke a little ways off from the hospital, discussing the possible need for a casevac by air. 

“You ever see the inside of those Globemasters?” the one was asking his buddy as Magnum moved toward them. “They got more equipment in them than we’ve got down here. Like a flying hospital.” He quickly jumped to attention as he finally noticed Magnum, now just a few steps away. “Sir.” 

“How is he?” Magnum’s own attempt at a salute was sloppy to say the least, but the two corpsmen obviously noticed the blood still smudged over his hands; they didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

“The bullet caught his small intestine.” The medic, Beatmen according to the patch on his chest, had recognized the other men immediately and wasn’t about to withhold information about their teammate from them. “They’re pushing a blood transfusion right now; his pressure’s too low for us to go straight in.” He glanced at Rick and T.C., standing silently behind Magnum before continuing. “We can get him fixed up ready to travel; he’ll need some time in a real hospital to recover properly.” He returned the nod he got from Magnum before dropping what was left of his cigarette and jerking his chin toward the entrance with a look to his colleague.

Magnum stepped aside, and he and Rick and T.C. watched as the two medics headed back to Nuzo’s side. It was no good for them to stand around aimlessly and wait for news, they knew that. Even so, none of them wanted to be the first to make a move to leave; it felt a little too much like they were abandoning Nuzo. So it was almost a relief to them all to hear Paulie calling to them as he hurried over.

“What happened? I was just working on one of the Jeeps when some joker comes over and tells me Sebastian’s at death’s door?”

“Take it down a notch, Paulie. Your brother’s gonna be just fine.” T.C., closer to Paulie than the others, put a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder. “He’s in good hands, you know that.”

“But what happened? I thought you guys were on a regular patrol? How’d he end up getting hit?” 

Magnum could see Paulie was working himself up and stepping forward, anxious to head him off. The fear in Paulie’s eyes was very real, and it wouldn’t be out of character for him to try to burst into the hospital and threaten the medical staff, thinking in his agitation that it would motivate them to somehow take better care of his brother.

“Come grab some coffee, and we’ll tell you the whole story.” Magnum made sure to keep his voice even, pushing down every hint of the anger and fear he was feeling; Paulie didn’t need that right now. 

It took the three of them, Magnum, Rick, and T.C., to herd Paulie away toward the canteen, basically linking their hands around him and forcing him to either walk with them or be dragged along. He wasn’t happy about it, trying a few times to make an abortive effort to get away from his friends. When they finally had him sitting with a coffee in front of him, they made sure to surround him to head off any attempt he might make to try to rush back out the door.

By the time they had shared the story of the day's events, making sure to go into as much detail as possible, the rain had stopped, the sun was setting, and they had all drunk far more coffee than was good for them. The table was littered with empty cups, and they had settled into a tense sort of silence. Each time the door opened, all four of them quickly looked up, each time hoping the new arrival was coming to tell them they could see Nuzo. When Beatmen walked in, eyes scanning the room, the four of them were on their feet before he’d spotted them.

“He’s coming out of the anesthesia now, if you wanna drop in. We’ll be sending him out on a transport soon.”

The last few words dropped into the air as Paulie rushed off, the other three men hot on his heels. Getting back to the hospital took less time than getting Paulie to leave, and Nuzo was still barely awake when they were shown to his bed. 

“How you doing, bro?” Paulie had gone back to looking scared as he took in the sight of his big brother’s too pale face, but he was making a determined effort to hide it. He managed to plaster a smile on his face as Nuzo gave a wide grin.

“I’m good, Paulie. I’m real good.” If he noticed the smirks at his dopey tone, he didn’t care, focusing instead on waving his hand in a vague attempt to pat his brother’s arm. “It was a real bad day though.”

"Maybe we should tell Robin about it?" Magnum seemed genuinely surprised when his friends all groaned and shook their heads. "Why not?"

"C'mon, Tommy, we’ve all seen that first draft he sent; you know how that'll go." Rick was fighting down a grin. "If Robin gets his hands on this story, then, all of a sudden, you'll be the one manning the fifty."

"And working on the engine.  _ And _ it'll be you that gets shot." T.C. looked as unimpressed as he could while Rick was giggling next to him. "Not to mention you'll still somehow, for some vague reason, have to drag all three of us to safety." 

Paulie took over as T.C. turned his face away, hiding his growing grin. "Probably have you single-handedly killing every hostile, with only one bullet, then loading all these guys, unconscious, into the Jeep and dragging it back to base with your bare hands."

The resulting laughter was so loud an irate nurse came over just to shush them all.


	2. In Which We See Higgy Trying To Get Hot Under The Collar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little something that almost doesn't fit the prompt because I totally forgot what I was meant to be filling. I fixed it in the end. Running people off the road is turning into this month's speciality for me lol!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original characters in this are all mine. Go ahead and steal them if you like. Except for for two I kill, they would be hard to steal. In my defence, original characters are almost always red shirts in my fics. Not even sorry. But trigger warning for the expected deaths of people we don't know, I guess?

_ A.N.- I know almost as much about both spycraft and snowstorms as I do about military stuff. Again, I offer my sincere apologies for mistakes, bad jargon, improper procedure, etc etc. Nothing I have the characters doing here has been tested by me and so, if you find yourself stuck in a snowstorm, don’t count on anything you read here to save you. _

  
  


The door burst open, but Higgins didn’t have the energy to react beyond tucking her head a little closer to her chest. Every part of her was aching and throbbing, a burning in stomach making her think of internal bleeding and organ damage. But the hands that reached for her were gentle, the voice quiet. 

‘Ilya,’ her mind breathed, the relief nearly sending her consciousness spiralling back down into the darkness it had only just clawed its way out of.

“What happened?” Ilya demanded, his usually flawless city-Russian coming out with a heavy backcountry accent, a sign of how upset he was to find her in such a state. His hands hovered over her, looking for somewhere that wasn’t bruised or swollen or bloodied. She didn’t even try to answer him. At her continued silence, he spoke again.

“Who did this to you?” he demanded. “What dog hurt you like this?”

She lifted her head, slowly and painfully, and saw a look of anger and determination on his face. It was the look of a man who was going to fight for the honour of his woman, and she felt an unexpected pang at that. She’d been counting on the feelings he had for her, planning to use them to her advantage, to use him as an emergency exit. She never expected to feel guilty about it. Then again, she’d never expected the Colonel to come for her personally either.

“I can’t tell you,” she managed, each syllable burning as her throat protested the guttural sounds of the Russian words. “You know I can’t tell you.” She knew perfectly well Ilya would guess it was the Colonel. And she let her eyes drop, half playing the role of the country girl who was in over her head, and half too utterly exhausted to hold her head up any longer. She didn’t need to look at him to see that she had him hooked; he wouldn’t just follow her into danger, he would hide her behind him as they charged headlong. And that was exactly what she needed right now. She needed his local contacts. She needed his car and his knowledge of the roads out of town. She needed him to be willing to risk being caught and killed and to be so caught up in his need to protect her that he wouldn’t consider his own death a problem. She didn’t need to be bogged down in confusing feelings of guilt; he was always going to be a means to an end and she needed to remember that.

Her eyes shut of their own accord as his hands finally landed on her, the gentle warmth so unlike anything she had felt over the last day; the Colonel was an expert at interrogation and every part of her bore the proof of his expertise.

“We need to leave,” Ilya whispered, and she just knew he was looking frantically around the room, scanning the corners like he expected to see the Colonel or his men lurking in the shadows. “We need to be far gone before he comes back.”

“I can’t.” She wasn’t even playing on his feelings for her; she genuinely wasn’t sure she could even stand, let alone move. His hands slid along her spine and, for a brief moment, it was Anatoly hovering over her, his cruel eyes staring at her helpless body. The shudder that ran through her pulled on something that had her seeing stars, bright white flashes that exploded inside her head and made her body burn. She might have screamed, it might have been a whimper, either way the noise that she couldn’t choke down just added to the pain, sending it rolling through her chest and head and shoulders. By the time Ilya had stood, her cradled in his arms, the woman he knew as Svetlana was unconscious.

…

The two of them had hidden in the attic for over a day, Ilya tending to her injuries as best he could with the supplies their ‘host’, an assistant at a veterinary clinic, had managed to scavenge for them. She had taken off as soon as she’d handed the small bag over, her eyes firmly locked on the floor.

“I’m going to visit my sister,” she’d said, speaking loudly and clearly. “I am leaving my house empty. And, when I return, I will find it empty still.” She hadn’t waited for Ilya to acknowledge her words, just spun and walked away.

Higgins would be the first to admit that the painkillers were first rate, but, if she wanted to keep Ilya believing that she was Svetlana, first rate drugs were a real problem. After the first dose he gave her had worn off, she’d refused any further tablets. Ilya had tried, over and again, to get her to take just one, but she had shaken her head every time.

“I need to be awake,” she had insisted, as vehemently as she could past the swollen, finger shaped bruises that were encircling her throat. “We might need to move.” She hadn’t said the Colonel might find them; she hadn’t needed to. Ilya had peered through a small hole in the soffiting and watched as the unmarked cars of the Colonel’s personal army, the force that no one would admit existed, had driven along the street. He was heading back to the hotel room, no doubt looking forward to another few hours of torturing information out of ‘Svetlana.’

He had looked so pleased to see her when she had opened the door to him, smiling gently and holding his arms out to her. She wanted to curse herself for not realising that he was suspicious of her, but she didn’t have the energy. She lay on the floor of the dusty attic, biting her lip as the prickles of pain crawled along her limbs.

“The Colonel’s car just went by again,” Ilya infomed her.

Of course it did. Once he realised his bird had flown, he would realise the need for some damage control. If she escaped his grasp and word got out about his unofficial activities, he would be facing humiliation, criminal charges. He needed to make sure ‘Svetlana’ never spoke to anyone.

Higgins tried to focus, tried to explain to Ilya that they had wasted too much time hiding, that he was being too solicitous of her injuries. But she couldn’t figure out how to say it in such a way that she wouldn’t need to explain how she knew that the Colonel would be setting up roadblocks, scattering his men about the roads leading out of the city, offering money to the people in the villages around the area in exchange for information.

But she could hear the Colonel’s voice in her head. He had done more of the dirty work than she had expected and had stayed calm and quiet the entire time, his tone almost casual.

“Who sent you?” he’d asked as she had struggled for breath. “Who do you report to?” he had crooned as she writhed against Anatoly’s grip. She couldn’t help the flicker of panic that ran through her; she strongly suspected she would need more than the regulation four weeks of counselling before she would be cleared for field assignments again.

“Ilya,” she breathed, lifting her hand. She couldn’t help it, the fear was like a living thing, clawing at her. Warm fingers took her hand, and she fought to control her breathing.

“We have to move.” Ilya sounded apologetic, but, if she’d been able, Higgins would have been crowing in triumph. That was what she needed. Now that he had broached the idea, she could push until he understood the urgency. She didn’t think it would take much; like anyone with any sense, Ilya was terrified of the Colonel.

Sure enough, less than an hour later, he was creeping out of the attic, supporting most of Higgins' weight as she fought just to keep quiet. It had taken a bit of time to plan their escape, mostly because Higgins didn’t dare make it obvious that she’d already had it planned for weeks. Ilya was going to get them both downstairs. Then he was going to get the license plates from his car, swap them with someone else’s, then pull up to the back of the small house. Meanwhile ‘Svetlana’, hampered by her injuries, was going to repack the bag with their laughable medical supplies and see if she could find some food for them to take with them.

She wasn't happy at the dark clouds obscuring the sun. They looked like storm clouds and, in 'glorious motherland', that could only mean snow. Getting away from the Colonel was going to be hard enough without a snowstorm making everything ten times harder. Traffic would stand out more, people would be less distracted and so more likely to remember the bruised-looking woman and scared-looking man, two of her exit routes would be useless… 

By the time Ilya came back, a smudge on his face from the dirty license plates, Higgins had talked herself out of a panic attack through sheer will power. But she was still panting a little, breathing as shallowly as she could to avoid aggravating the ribs she was sure were broken. Something of her fear must have been showing on her face.

"I'll protect you," Ilya swore, his hands sliding around her waist and holding her so gently she could hardly feel them. "I will not let him hurt you again."

She should have been happy to hear that. She should have been relaxing, knowing that this young man would fight to keep her safe. Instead, she felt a dull throb in her stomach, nothing like the burning pain the interrogation had left her with.

"I'll die first."

And she knew, just knew, that Ilya absolutely was going to die. She tried to tell herself she was injured and scared and stressed and feeling a slight depression was a natural reaction. But she couldn't silence the voice that was whispering that they would never succeed, that they would be caught and Ilya would be killed. And that was if he was lucky. The Colonel wasn't known for his generosity towards people who had wronged him.

As Ilya busied himself with their bag, quickly checking through the cupboards she had already picked clean, Higgins adjusted her expectations. She wasn't aiming to get home anymore; she was just hoping to inconvenience the Colonel long enough to make her death worthwhile.

…

It had started snowing, but it was just a few flakes being blown down by the increasingly strong wind. Ilya was sure he could handle it; he'd been driving through snow since before he actually had his license. He glanced at Svetlana, unsure if she was just asleep or actually unconscious and unsure if he should try to wake her. She'd worried about the weather, saying more than once that they couldn't afford to get trapped by the impending blizzard. She'd looked terrified.

' _ Who wouldn't be?' _ Ilya asked himself as he finally flicked the windscreen wipers on. ' _ The Colonel will kill her for trying to leave him.'  _ It said a lot about his character that he didn't consider the danger his own life was in. His only concern was the woman in the passenger seat of his car. He'd wanted to take her away weeks ago, back when she had first told him of the Colonel's interest in her. He had tried to make her understand that it wasn't a good thing, that the Colonel wasn't a good man. He frowned as he remembered the smile she had given him, the saddest smile he had ever seen.

"I know that," she'd told him, putting her hand on his cheek, "but the time to leave was before he ever knew I existed. It's too late now."

Ilya felt a surge of anger and nearly slammed his hand against the wheel, only the thought that he might wake Svetlana stopped him. They would get away, he told himself. They would get away, get to the Americas, and start a new life. Somewhere the Colonel had no power and no people. Somewhere they would be safe.

He kept half his mind on the road, twisting and bending around the countryside, and the other half pictured his future with Svetlana. They would marry; she would wear white, he would get a suit tailored. He'd never had anything custom made before and had a vague idea that it was something he could use as a symbol of his freedom. 

As he pondered the possible expense of a one-of-a-kind wedding dress- surely it couldn't be much more expensive than a suit? After all, a suit involved trousers and a jacket, a shirt, a tie, and a dress was just one piece with some petticoats, wasn't it?- the snow started falling in earnest. It wasn't long before he was forced to slow down, then slow again, dropping down gears and running the wipers on full speed. Even so, he was squinting through the swirling mass outside the car.

The first time the wheels slipped, Ilya managed to regain control quite easily, years of practice making it a simple matter for him to twitch the wheel and ease off the gas and keep the car pointing more or less in the right direction. The second time the tyres lost traction, the car slid so violently that both its occupants were thrown sideways, Ilya into the door and Higgins against the seatbelt. They both gasped, but Higgins cried out too, pain tearing through her. She reached out blindly, desperate for something to ground her reeling consciousness, to assure her that the memory of her escape wasn’t a dream.

She felt fingers gripping her hand and forced her eyes open, staring wildly at Ilya’s face, fighting to push down the panic that had surged up with the wave of pain. It took a long time, longer than it should have, for her to realise Ilya was looking right back at her.

“The road…” she croaked, wincing. “Watch…”

“Hush.” Ilya let go of the wheel with his other hand and reached out to stroke her face. “The car is stuck.” 

She followed his eyes as his head twitched towards the windscreen and saw nothing but solid white. She glanced out of the window in the door, feeling dizzy at the movement but struggling to understand what had happened. The snow was heavier than she would have liked but not heavy enough to account for the way the bonnet of the car seemed to have been totally buried.

“What… What happened?” She didn’t like the look on Ilya’s face; he was about to tell her something very bad.

“We spun off the road.” His voice was almost flat, and his eyes were looking somewhere off behind her left ear.

“Are we… stuck?” Oh but she hated how weak she sounded, how hard it was to catch her breath and form words. 

“I’m not sure,” Ilya confessed, still refusing to meet her gaze. “Even if we aren’t, the radio said the weather is rapidly getting worse. We won't be able to make it much farther.”

Higgins looked at the window behind him and thought she could already see a difference in how thick the snow was outside. Ilya let go of her hand and unbuckled his seat belt, turning in his seat to reach for their small bag. He fished out the painkillers before turning back, holding two of the tablets. Higgins tried to shake her head, but the pain behind her eyes stopped her.

“Svetlana, please” Ilya coaxed. “I need to check the bandages. You need to take them.”

She didn’t have the strength to argue with him, too much pain, too much worry, too much fear. The pills hurt as she swallowed them, burning her throat and making her struggle not to cough and choke. Ilya sat with her, stroking her cheek and whispering nonsense as the drugs started to make their way through her system. The darkness that crept over her stole away the pain and the fear, leaving her floating on something that felt like a cloud. Ilya’s voice kept her company for a while, leading her deeper and deeper into the peace and quiet. Somewhere between one breath and the next, she very suddenly fell asleep.

When her eyes opened, it was to the feeling of cold and a grogginess that she wasn’t at all sure she could attribute to the painkillers. The light coming in through the windows looked oddly muted, but it was a struggle to get her eyes to focus enough to realise the glass had been covered with sheet after sheet of newspaper. She let her head roll sideways, the pain poking at her nerves but not really being very enthusiastic about it, and saw Ilya shaking two small plastic bottles, one in each hand.

As she watched, not feeling up to making a noise, certainly not feeling able to talk, he carefully slipped each bottle into his clothing. Once the bottles were tucked next to his stomach, Ilya drew his shirt closed around them, zipped up his jacket, and reached out for some sheets of newspaper that Higgins hadn’t noticed were sitting on the dashboard. She glanced down, keeping her head still and just moving her eyes, and saw she was wrapped in newspaper too.

Some vague memory surfaced, something in a book she had read as a child, about newspaper being a decent way to add insulation when dealing with the cold. Her eyes lifted themselves to the windscreen without her thinking about it and stared in a sort of hazy horror at what she imagined was a solid wall of snow and ice beyond the paper and glass.

“Svetlana?”

Who? She’d thought Ilya was the only other person in the car with her. Svetlana. The name seemed familiar, a small bell ringing in her memory. So she knew Svetlana too? That would explain why she was traveling with them.

“Are you awake this time?” 

Higgins leaned into the gentle warmth on her face without thinking about it, unsure why she was feeling so vulnerable. The ache in her cheek was uncomfortable and dragged her a little closer to reality. She remembered Svetlana was her alias at the same moment she remembered the look in the Colonel’s eyes when he had watched Anatoly wrap his hands around her throat, and she lurched in the seat, body screaming at the movement but adrenaline pouring into her system, making it impossible to stay still.

“Easy, it’s okay!”

Hands! Hands on her arm, her shoulder, pressing her back, holding her down. This wasn’t right! They had left; she was sure of it. She had refused to tell them anything, clinging with strength borne of terror to her cover story. And Ilya had…

Ilya. His name ran through her mind.

“Ilya?”

“Yes, love, it’s just me.” His voice was achingly soft and full of concern.

Higgins allowed herself to revel in the feeling of being wanted for just a moment, then forced her eyes to focus. He looked even more worried than he sounded, his face pale and tense. She tried to reach out, to pat his cheek, but her arms were trapped by layers of clothes and paper; he’d taken her arms out of the sleeves of her coat and zipped it up over them, she realised.

“We’ll be okay,” she managed, nearly starting the sentence in English, her tongue catching her brain’s mistake without giving it a heads-up and leaving her ears confused. “The blizzard… the Colonel…” She couldn’t finish a full sentence, but Ilya knew what she was trying to say and he nodded. The Colonel’s men would have been held up by the weather too; this was a delay, but not a death sentence.

“I know where we are,” he muttered, keeping his voice low as he watched the pain build on Svetlana’s face. “As soon as the snow stops, I can go for help.” He watched the woman beside him try to object, mouth opening and closing on half-formed words as her train of thought kept jumping the tracks. Side effects of the drugs, he decided, because anything else, a concussion, brain damage, was more than he could deal with. 

He let her exhaust herself, the lingering effects of the drugs and her body’s own utter exhaustion combining to leave her bleary-eyed and yawning, wincing at the pull on various injuries. He smiled a little as her eyes slipped closed and her head leant against his hand, seeking him out even as her consciousness fled. He stayed still for a while longer, making sure she wouldn’t be disturbed by his moving, before slowly pulling his hand back.

The newspaper wasn’t easy to move, he’d used the duct tape he kept along with the other items considered essential for surviving a snowstorm in a car and made sure none of the glass was uncovered. But he managed to peel back a small corner enough to see that the snow was falling much lighter now and pressed it carefully back with a feeling of satisfaction. Even through the snow, he’d spotted the old oak; the crooked trunk was an excellent marker for those who knew to look for it. Matvei’s farm was close, more than close enough for him to make his way there on foot, even through the drifts.

He’d leave Svetlana with the bottles of snow he was melting under his clothes and the food in the bag, not that he expected she would eat much, if any. But Matvei would have food and water and warm, dry clothes. And a way out of Russia for them both.

“Out of Russia and free to America,” Ilya whispered, watching Svetlana’s face for any sort of a reaction. Nothing, not a flicker of an eyelid, and he decided she was probably as deeply asleep as she was going to get. The snow was more than light enough for him, and, even if it wasn’t, the amount of blood that had been on the bandages had scared him. She needed much more medical help than he could provide, especially with limited supplies and no room.

“I’ll send Matvei back for you, love,” he told her, adding the newspaper he’d wrapped around himself to the sheets covering her. She had the woolen blanket too, and he hoped that it would be enough to stop her waking up at the blast of cold air when he opened the door. It was just a short walk, that was all. Nothing to it.

...

The pain woke her, rolling through her as some external force she couldn’t track shook her body. There was noise but she couldn’t focus on that either; it was washed out and distant. The shaking stopped, the noise went away, and everything got just a little bit darker as her consciousness started to slide away from the real world again. She was feeling oddly numb and didn’t particularly care to figure out why; the pain faded quickly, and that was really all she had the energy to care about.

“Hurry!”

The voice was hushed, harsh as the word was panted out, but it was clear, ringing in her ears, and the pain surged up again. She focused, feeling reality wrapping itself around her and dragging her back towards it. Her shoulder. The movement was coming from her shoulder. She certainly wasn’t moving it herself, so someone was moving it for her. Shaking. That was it; someone was shaking her. She tried to force her eyes to open, but either she couldn’t lift her eyelids or she couldn’t see; there was just blurred colour. Someone was fumbling with the zip on her coat, and Higgins felt a surge of panic, but all she could do was try to twitch away. She was too exhausted for more.

“Stop fighting!”

She didn’t think that was fair. She wasn’t fighting; she was barely even awake, lightheaded in a way that told her she was losing blood from somewhere. How had that happened? Had this man hurt her? She didn’t think so. For all that his shaking her had hurt, he seemed more interested in waking her up and getting her out of the car, and hurting her wouldn’t help him accomplish that. She must have moved while she was unconscious; Ilya had warned her to hold still; that there was damage he had only been able to patch up and not fix. 

“Anatoly will be here soon.”

That was all she needed to snap her back to herself; the adrenaline left her panting and dizzy, but it spurred her on. Anatoly meant pain, so much pain, and, even with this thick, numb feeling that was enveloping her entire body, she knew she couldn’t face him. She shifted her arms, ignoring the flashes of pain that shot through the numbness to get them back into the coat sleeves, and twisted on the seat. It took more concentration than it should have done to lift her legs from the footwell and swing them over the door frame. What on earth was going on? Was it the blood loss? 

The man stepped back and offered her his hands. There was blood on them, she noticed dimly, and she wondered if it was hers or his. If it was hers, it would support her theory that she was bleeding out. She didn’t cringe as she accepted his help getting out of the car; she’d never been the sort to be overly bothered by the sight of blood.

“Ilya…” Pain flared up in her chest as she stood, cutting off the question she was going to ask. But she glanced at the face of the man standing over her, and she had her answer. His face was pale, gaunt, pain flashing in his brown eyes.

“Anatoly arrived shortly after Ilya. I ran out the back, but it won't take long for him to realise Ilya wasn’t alone.”

She was freezing she realised, as she glanced away from the man’s anguish and caught sight of her own white fingernails. She wanted to take time to think things through, work out how long she had been sitting in the car, how long her body had been slowly shutting down, how long she would be able to keep moving. What were the odds that she would actually get away?

“I know it hurts, but we need to move!” He was snapping the words at her, grabbing at her hand as he did. He took a step forwards and she copied him, staggering just on that one step but managing to keep herself upright.

It wasn’t easy; her legs seemed to end somewhere around her knees, making it impossible to judge where her feet were landing. Her head was spinning and floating. And, as she took a second step, a weakness she had never felt before slammed into her. Just keeping her body from dropping to the ground was suddenly an all-consuming battle. She was vaguely aware of a hand on her face and wanted to pull away from it, but she wasn’t sure how to go about moving. 

And then pain, white hot and living and angry, flared up in her side somewhere, and she bit down hard on her bottom lip, knowing without being at all sure why, that making a noise was a bad thing.

“Come on, get up.” 

She hadn’t even realised she had fallen. But, sure enough, she was on her side in the snow.

“That’s the best I can do for now. Between them, the gauze and the hypothermia will keep the blood loss manageable until we can get to the bridge.”

She had no idea what any of that meant. There were just too many words being thrown her way for her mind to catch any of them.

“Is Ilya meeting us there?” The question felt wrong, but she couldn’t work out why. At the man’s continued silence, she glanced back to the car. “Aren’t we driving?”

“The car’s no use to you now.” And he was pulling at her hand again, sending a ripple of pain jumping and skipping along her arm.

She shifted her feet, figuring following this man was the quickest way to make him stop hurting her. Something was nagging at her though. This wasn’t Ilya, but she was sure he had been there not long ago.

“Who are you?” Her voice was hoarse and weak, and she wasn’t sure he’d heard her.

“Matvei.” And, just when she thought that was all she’d get, “Ilya sent me to help you.”

“I’m Juliet,” she offered, thinking she was maybe saying the wrong thing, but too confused and numb and dizzy to figure out why.

“Of course you are,” was the confusing response. “Less talking. We need to move faster.”

By the time Anatoly found the stranded car, the footsteps and blood had been covered by the still falling snow. The Colonel would shoot him when he reported back that he had lost ‘Svetlana.’ No one within the Russian secret police would ever learn the woman's real name or that she was recovering in a hospital in England or, least of all, that she was responsible for the intelligence leak that forced the Russian government to press charges against the Colonel. And Ilya’s car would disappear from the side of the road one night, to be hidden beneath a tarpaulin in a run-down old barn, the only grave marker Ilya would ever get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact- my research strongly suggest SEALs used to waterboard their new recruits but had to stop doing it because no one could handle it and it was bad for morale. The fact that Higgy kept Magnum's name out of her mouth while being waterboarded could just be down to the emotional factor, but I firmly believe she has been tortured in the past. While waterboarding wasn't a factor here, mostly because I've done it before, the interrogation obviously wasn't gentle. (For those wondering, yes, I also found the suggestion that UK and US forces and assets were subjected to 'noise torture' during training. And yes, I am using that this month too.)

**Author's Note:**

> The third chapter was going to be in-series but I just did not have the time! So I am re-writing a few bits and squishing it in to one of the later prompts for the month. Seriously, how have I done two chapters?!


End file.
